Part 2: Unsent Letter

It was the morning of the wedding, and while most of the girls were deep into their preparation, Overshare Claire was sitting out the back of the house rummaging for rolling tobacco. She threw her empty pouch on the table which was still covered in the night before’s flotsam/jetsam. With a filter in her mouth she looked across at Kick-on Cameron, sat by himself on his phone and doing his best to ignore her. “Chuck us some angel hair?”

She presented herself to Kick-on Cameron with a level of familiarity that made him feel uneasy. His experience had always been that after a break up, both parties would pretend to be civil to the point of awkwardness. Overshare Claire’s approach had been anything but.

“Alternatively, can I have a big boy dart?”

An affirmative gurgle slowly slumped Kick-on Cameron into tepid action. Turns out all the pouches on the table were empty, and there were only two darts left in a pack of ice blasts. “There’s two here, but I don't know who they belong to.” He lofted the pack to her and she caught it (pretty fucking well, too... Shit throw.)

“Ugh. Fucking menthols.”

Angel hair for uni darts > scabbed tailors > Ugh. Fucking menthols.

“Beggars,” snapped Kick-on Cameron.

“I know, I know. But still… Ugh.” She pivoted and sat, lighting the fucking menthol. They sat silently on their phones for a few minutes, then Overshare Claire piped up.

“What are you wearing today?”

“White shirt, black slacks, black tie.”

“No jacket?”

“No jacket.”

“Wanna know what I’m wearing? We’re matching.”

Overshare Claire was softening him, maybe to just make it less awkward for the others when they would eventually be surrounded by them.

“I’m wearing that black and white stripy number.” She put her fucking menthol out and stood up. “Come grab me when you’re dressed, we should pinch some matching flowers too. I’ll pin one on ya.”

But then, maybe she wasn’t trying to just make it less awkward for the sake of everyone else.

Off she went, leaving Kick-on Cameron to ponder what the fuck just happened. People came and sat at the table in different states of readiness over the next half hour. Kick-on Cameron sat there, face in his phone, staring at a draft message to Overshare Claire and only looking up when either addressed or when someone would sit next to him and he would have to lock his phone screen.

What was that just then? Im not sure what you’re trying to do?

What was that this morning? Im not sure what you’re trying to do?

Not sure what that was this morning. Are you certain about what you’re trying to do?

15 minutes of drafting and he hit send on this:

-Good chat. No gerberas thanks.-

Shit house.

He put his phone in his pocket and tried his hardest to not think about it. He went to his room and ironed his shirt. He polished his shoes with his sock. He pumped back-to-back fucking menthols from a fresh pack he had in his backpack. He checked his phone. Two big blue ticks next to his last whatsapp message letting him know it was seen. No reply.

Casual drinks before the ceremony, she spent her time talking with the bride’s parents.

During the ceremony, she stood with Pretty Penny’s work friends.

Casual drinks after the ceremony, she laughed and laughed with some of the other wedding goers sharing a joint behind where the marquees were set up.

Then before dinner she came over to Kick-on Cameron with a flower in her hand and gestured as if to ask if she could pin it to his shirt pocket.

“It’s not a fucking gerbera is it?”

“Ew, no.” She pinned it to his shirt and straightened his tie. “You look really nice.”

Big inhale. Big exhale.

“I’m sorry things went to shit. Tbh (***editor’s note: I like to think she actually said those letters***) I kind of wish they hadn’t, and I think having a bit of space has helped me realise it.”

“Ok.” Kick-on had hoped for this opportunity but hadn’t thought about how he would approach it.

“You gotta have more than that, Kick-on.”

He searched his brain, browsing all the things he’d been endlessly assessing in his head for the past two weeks.

Big inhale. Big exhale.

“Ok. I’m sorry. And I wanna do better. I fucked it……”

This descended into mutual repeated apologies for various things normal people would probably never be sorry for, and climbed slowly into overly familiar flirting. That type of flirting that you do with an ex (possibly the most dangerous flirting ***editor’s note: if ‘flirt’ was spelt ‘flert’, it would be kind of gross***).

The rekindled flerters had a cheeky pash and went about their evenings relieved of their burdens.

Speeches were great. Dinner was ok. DJ was somewhere in between (depending on who you ask). It was officially over at midnight. The communal table disbanded around 6am.